Honesty

I've been drunk for a long time now.

I thought I was out, but it was a lie.

Time for some honesty.

********

I just did it. It was a sunny day and I was sick of feeling so damn self absorbed and sad. Always sad, why the fuck? I had the Complicated One, beautiful and open, but my conscience told me no so I tried to drink it away. And four, five, six, count them all on four hands but nothing to stop me turning and gazing at the forest and dreaming of its embrace. That forest may well be the end of the line, I thought, and that's depressing somedays.

But then I thought I had found an Angel. And so on that sunny day I just went right up and did it. Hi, you don't know me but...

The Angel laughed and it began.

********

I was actually crying last week when I tilted my head back and looked up high, standing in the middle of a park on my own screaming, THANKYOU. THANKYOU THANKYOU THANKYOU. That's how I felt, I felt the Universe had taken pity on me and had decided enough was enough and here, these things are for you.

But the Universe won't be finished with me until all I can see above me is the cold, dark timber of my eternal rotting prison.

Fuck it.

Fuck it to Hell.

********

The Angel and I jumped on a plane. I'm frightened, she said, this is scary and I don't think I'm ready to jump.

I just opened the door. Took off my parachute and opened the door.

Then I jumped. That's what I do.

What a fucking rush man.

Yesterday I thought I had managed to land on my feet. Today I'm not so sure.

On Saturday Night, the Angel's wings turned dark and I realised she was a Demon. And I was too busy, talking myself into seeing her dark as light, too busy hoping. Wishing. Just for something, anything.

You see, I'm not looking for someone to love me. I have that. I'm looking for someone who lets me be in love with them. And who decides to jump out that door with me and feeeeeeel.

People love me, but I only love people who can't love me.

Honesty.

********

I thought I was done with Bukowski, the minute I put the book down. Running With The Hunted. But he's inside me now, deeper than ever, and I'm starting to get scared.

I thought: It would be nice to have my funeral, because there are so many of my friends that haven't met each other.

I thought: Well, you are throwing a house warming party soon...

I thought: Yeah, but people actually turn up to a funeral.

I'm drinking again, but today I'm normally sober.

********

The Demon-Angel passed me a bottle of Tequila in the backyard of a wild house party. We took turns necking it and each other until I lifted the bottle one last time and the scorpion that resided in its depths fell into my mouth. Hey! She said, I wanted some of that. It was still in my mouth so I pulled it out and snapped it in half. I gave her the sting. I gave her the sting.

I could feel myself losing self control, getting wobbly and slurring my words so I said, I gots to go. Well at least help me find my friend, she said, wait for him and you can walk me to a taxi. But I needed to go. Needed. So I climbed out some window and started to stagger down the street. MAT. COME BACK. I heard the cry, but I just kept on walking. Made my way to the gutter outside my second home until my Little Sister inside noticed me and put me in a taxi.

When I awoke I got the scoop in an electronic kick in the face.

You're too passionate about me. I'm too volatile around that. You said if I told you to stop, you'd stop. So stop. My heart can't do this. I'm frightened.

So I showered, walked to the pub...and stopped.

********

The forest is but a voice now, and an occasional soft word. It's a memory of something intangible, another Queen of Hearts in the deck of cards that is my crazy fucking past.

I still dream of it every night. Every single damn night.

********

Everyday I get a text or a kind word from a multitude of friends, and that should be enough, and most days it is.

I get: When I die, I hope to be reincarnated as you. From a friend I wish I saw more, knew better.

I get: You know what you are? You're great. From the same friend.

I get all sorts of messages, dirty invitations, people that love me, where the Hell are you messages.

But it's all disconnected in a world between worlds and I still can't find where exactly I fit. Or why these people would love someone they hardly see. I'm the ideal of a passionate, restless, wild spirit. But maybe I'm just another thirty something, with another hard luck story. Or ten.

********

I compose a love letter to my princess. My forest. A real love letter, not garlands and memories, but an honesty letter, with real reasons, sincere and open but distant all the same. Respecting the distance. Despising it though I am.

I compose it but realise it's not the time. Right now it's time for solitude and clarity and the fresh air that can blow everything that is false from me and leave me standing, a naked soul, an empty vessel.

Fill it fucko.

********

I watch Batman Begins. And the line says: It's not who you are underneath which defines you, but what you do. I've always tried to make people see what lies underneath me, but now it's time to just do.

Oh and Universe? Bring it on you cunt.

SOMEBODY HELP

Or:

Why my Drug Dealer Freaks Me Out...

My drug dealer really is the nicest Drug Dealer in the world. He has ridden his bicycle 30km in the pouring rain just to give me one pill at 7 in the morning without me having to pay. And other stuff...But still, we all have our dark side...

Recently I texted him something about fixing him up some cash I owed him.

This is the response...his spelling...

Thanks it would help, but you are much loved on this side of the coin my friend, and if I was a chic for a day I'd be one of those sexysuicide dominatrix type chics, i'd be in pvc high shiny boots, a very tight leather corset with a very purple ribbon pulling it together just enough to squash my very tanned puppies up almost to the point that their popping out - you can just see my areolas are exposed but as you look down at my crotch you notice a very large very life like black vainy strap on cock and you are in my motel room after you meet me backstage at the after party for the queens of the stone age (that were playing to a private gig at a party for shock records) and after a lot of substance abuse and jager i take you back to my hote room and tie your arms and legs face down on the bed and with that black cock (which you might not have noticed at the party under my dress because it was duck taped to my leg and as i remove the tape the strap on comes alive sticking out like a big black pudding and as i splash virgin olive oil all over your back and cheeks i tell you it's scented oils but i'd run out in the first two hours of having to be in the the body of a fucking horny slut kitten. And you don't know any of this because your down in the pillow and you squeal when i touch you on your wet date and you scream when you feel your ass dylate as this huge oiled up strap on gets you by surprise but after a few slow jabs you warm to it and start rearing back, you kept this up till you had the whole lot up your ass you came and you paid me and said you'd call me again when you were in town.






Fucking Jesus Christ...How about those riots then hey????

True Grit

Soundtrack: QOTSA / The Blood Is Love


open up your mouth

touch your lips to mine

that we may make a kiss that can pierce through death & survive

your words have branded my mind

still i hold your hand

wrapped as if a ring

we of flesh & blood are only carrying

it's so hard to

well, you know


You want one of those ones? One of those scream at the world, hold your head up high as your fucking bitterness rolls down your cheeks but you grit your teeth and smile and laugh and love posts?

Posts where you bare your soul to cunts you know read this blog and you don't care and you get it all out and the music keeps you going and the angst you feel is doubled, tripled because you've been asked to give up smoking and that's a fucking GIGANTIC crutch. It's a fucking work of art a giant wooden crutch in the middle of a country field and if your hands are just busy then nothing else worms it's fucking way in and you are the freaking Marlboro Man, just for a second, and you want that fucking sickness, because you. are. tough.

Yeah.

So as you're aching, fucking screaming, here come the words because the hands and words are one and that way all you are is a fucking stream of consciousness and a set of ears, and these words, and this music all point directly to that fucked up moral rollercoaster of a heart baby. And it keeps it all together. Just. Just. Just.

And words are just that. Fucking words. But right now, right now they're a whole lot more, they're a glue, a binding agent, and they're fucking setting me free.

You want one o' them posts?

Not today.

BB

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